


Russian Roulette

by thecolorofstars



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecolorofstars/pseuds/thecolorofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't harassment, it's a civilian liaison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Russian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely based off of a roleplay between the lovely @NVSSP_Rookie and @NightValeSciFi. They're very skilled and this wouldn't exist without them, so please check them out on twitter!

Rookie is far smarter than most give him credit for. Behind his obvious bravado is intense training and natural skill that far surpasses most of Night Vale’s citizens. Only the best are allowed to be forcefully accepted into the Sheriff’s Secret Police, after all. It’s as his father always told him. If you can’t kill everyone who is powerful enough to scare you, make them endlessly loyal servants of the law. This is why his hands shake only in excitement as he leaves a single bullet in the revolver. His banter with the scientist is nothing more than the familiar taunting for a moment before he notices something slipping in the scientist’s tone.  
“We can always reschedule,” he offers honestly, though it sounds close to a taunt leaving his lips.  
There is no surprise between them when his offer is rejected. Whatever was upsetting the scientist does not exist within their their world of cold metal and sly smiles. His skin flushes with the power that this realization holds.. His hands shake only slightly more than before. There is no escape, not for a scientist that will not admit what he wants to anyone. The emptiness of his threats also does not shock Rookie. There are no biohazard suits or assault rifles on standby. In fact, he has been the only one to monitor the scientist’s apartment since the previous incident involving a sloppy break in and an unloaded gun. He does not care to watch what happens when he strays into the Voice’s territory.  
He saunters into the lab with a smirk on his lips and his gun settled on his hip. It is as if the single bullet is heavier than than the other five. Though inexperienced, the man has enough sense not to turn his back to the door. They trade conversation as Rookie moves closer, edging on insults and hinting at something kinder. Even as he leans against a counter, Rookie cannot - or will not - identify the reason that he holds back. There is no pretense. Both of them know to some extent what will follow in this visit. Still, he waits for Carlos to move past their pointless small talk.  
“I believe we scheduled this meeting for a reason,” he announces, raising an eyebrow. “I suggest you get on with it.”  
“Pretty sure that reason was the whole bread thing,” Rookie lies with a smirk. “That, and showing you how to properly threaten someone with a gun.”

“I believe it was along the lines of showing me how to... what was it? Properly threaten someone from behind with a gun?”

Rookie quirks a brow, his smirk stretching wider. The memory of the gun against the soft flesh of his chin is fresh, but the anticipation of a gun against Carlos’s head stronger. There is still so much to know about the scientist. Will he flinch away from the metal on his skin? Will he lean into it, relishing the feeling? Or is there something else, something undiscovered to make things even more interesting?

“Did you really drag me all the way here just so you can feel me against your back, holding a gun to your head? Flirt.”

Laughter bubbles up from deep within him as Carlos struggles to avoid the admission, settling on a grumbled redirection. Yes, dear citizen, it does sound ridiculous, but everything sounds silly when stated so plainly, doesn’t it? It also sounds all too enticing. Rookie takes the embarrassed deflection as proof that Carlos agrees.

“Face that bench behind you,” he directs, reaching for the gun strapped to his side.

“Should I take my glasses off for this?” the scientist asks with a roll of his eyes as he turns away. “I have a feeling that you’ll try to break them.”

“Hey, hey,” Rookie chides. “This is just a demonstration. If I'd wanted to break glass, I'd have pushed you through all those vials over there.”

Carlos glares back at him, eyes burning through the tinted lenses that separate them, “You are not to harm my equipment.”

Rookie rolls his eyes and stifles a sigh. The thought of actually destroying his glassware hadn’t crossed his mind until the scientist decided to get so upset. Perhaps he will have to teach him something about revealing weaknesses later.

“Maybe I made you face away so I didn't have to look at you failing to grasp basic concepts and asking me to manhandle you,” he suggests impatiently.

There’s a shift in Carlos’s position that throws something in his brain. It could be angle of his body against the counter or the way that his clothes pull against his torso when he folds his arms like an impudent child. When he approaches the man in front of him, he wants to show him. Make him realize exactly how ignorant he is.

“I usually recommend a grip in their perfect hair,” he twists his fingers roughly into Carlos’s thick, beautiful overgrown mop. “Like so. A strong grip is the foundation of a great attack.”

The strangled noise that escapes from between Carlos’s gritted teeth is absolutely gorgeous. His faces twists into a grimace of pain and annoyance as Rookie’s smooths into the perfect portrait of a trained officer. All that betrays his interest in the situation is the slight quirk of his lips. Even then it is only to show the true cruelty that wasn’t just trained, but bred.

“That hurts,” Carlos whines.

“What were you expecting? A gentle caress?” he laughs, mocking the discomfort he is causing. “This is a training exercise, Civilian.”

“Get on with it,” the scientist groans, earning a curt nod from the officer behind him.

“You can twist a person and pin them with one swift motion. How do you like being against the wall?”

“As much as you would expect.”

A foot meets the skin just below his knee. His lips turn down slightly at the struggle and the hands around the man’s wrists tighten. There may be a small bruise if he bothered to check later, but the scientist is mistaken if he believes that he can bring himself any sort of freedom like that. All that he has succeeded in doing is annoying his... partner, for this exercise at least. He clicks his tongue at Carlos, shaking his head.

“Was that supposed to hurt?” he grins, voice dripping with all the sweetness of burnt sugar. “No, no. This is what you do if you want things to hurt.”

It only takes a light kick to Carlos’s knees to force him to drop, releasing a pained cry as he does so. Rookie is struck by the sight of the scientist bent in front of him on the stained tile, face contorted with the shocks radiating through him from the impact. He looks wonderful there. Those moans could be put to better use, could have a better cause than pain.

“It's almost like you asked for this,” the officer comments. “Oh wait, you did.”

“Lesson's over, Rookie,” Carlos announces through gritted teeth, head remaining down and eyes meeting only the floor.

With a soft, nearly inaudible chuckle, Rookie crouches next to the scientist. His scientist, as far as he is concerned. The gun is cold against his heated skin. It rests comfortably in his hand. When he leans forward, his lips brush the very edges of Carlos’s ear. Satisfaction rises in him as he feels the man shudder.

“Now, sweet scientist, the lesson is never truly over.”

“Don’t test me, Zorrito,” Carlos warns, rolling the pet name on his tongue. “Don't even think about actually putting that gun anywhere close to me.”

“You know, guns don't kill people, but they do hurt.”

The reminder is enough to cause Carlos to jump at the feeling of metal against his head. His eyes flicker to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the revolver. It wouldn’t help anything. They both know this.

“Keep it against the temple, but mix it up,” he directs. “Perhaps graze it across the cheek.”

It feels just as delicious as he imagined it would. The skin gives under the muzzle, pushing too far in the moment where Carlos opens his moment to speak. Rookie is so busy enjoying the nervous twitch of Carlos’s skin that he only hears him when his head turns away.

“Put the gun away,” Carlos demands.

“You scared? This is nothing,” he smirks, releasing his grip. “How about this, huh? A little practical experiment. Get up. You try, I won't resist.”

Carlos rises slowly, turning to face Rookie with wary eyes. He accepts the gun that is offered to him, but only to set it on the counter. When he looks back, he is met with a flat face of annoyance. This is not what the point is and the scientist knows it perfectly well. He also seems to be aware that he will not win this game.

“Humor me,” Carlos says after a moment. “Do you dance?”

The question takes Rookie so completely by surprise that he can barely stutter out any sort of response. In that instant, he finds himself feeling impossibly small. It is true that he has various other guns and knives stashed on him, but the revolver is on the counter and Carlos has caught him by surprise. Carlos has to repeat himself.

“¿Puedes bailar? Come now, don't be shy,” the scientist taunts.

“Dance? With you? In these shoes? The horror,” Rookie recovers with a smirk that only wavers for a split second. “Yes, I know rudimentary waltzes, just in case the official Night Vale language becomes dance.”

“The language of dance is one I can speak, a bit, at least,” Carlos smiles and slides a hand to his waist. “Shoes as an excuse? For shame. Are you scared?”

“Never knew you were proficient in the skill. Was this all just an elaborate ploy to get me to dance? Wily.”

With that smirk, Rookie feels his full size again. The moment is fleeting. In a split second, Carlos twists his wrists and presses him to the wall, snatching his hat away from him.

“No,” Carlos grins. “It was a ploy to get you off guard.”

It worked.

What a little shit.

“Well isn't that cute?” Rookie says, clapping quietly. “You learned first grade misdirection. I won't snap your wrist. I'm fairly proud of you.”

“To add to that, I really can dance. I doubt you'd be inclined to, though.”

Carlos is nearly smirking Rookie’s own smirk back at him as he leans against the counter, setting his hat next to the gun that the officer so desperately wants back. One round. It would be so much more comfortable to hold it. A finger on the trigger, a head to the muzzle...

“Try me,” he challenges. “I wouldn't be inclined? Now that's a clumsy assumption. I digress. What now, 'officer'?”

“Officer? In your daydreams,” Carlos says and rolls his eyes, stepping forward. “You know my name. You could call me that you know. Regardless, let's see how your footwork is.”

Rookie has no memory of calling the scientist by his name. He knows it, of course, but he also knows the name of everyone else in Night Vale. Whenever it comes to addressing him, Rookie has always just gone with something impersonal. Citizen is a common choice. The term, not quite a name, but not quite a title, reduces him to nothing more than another toy to be played with. A troublesome toy, but a toy all the same.

“You wanna see my footwork?” he smirks. “Sure.”

His leg sweeps out, kicking Carlos’s foot out from under him. A strong, sudden grip on Rookie’s arm allows the man to steady himself. The point, of course, was not to actually cause him to fall. An accidental injury would be most unfortunate and not nearly as fun as a revolver with a single bullet.

“That’s not what I mean,” the scientist hisses. “Shoulders back. Your posture is terrible for dancing. Too stiff.”

Carlos steps back when Rookie twists to face him, wrenching his arm away from his grip. Now smart enough to expect an attack, Carlos flinches away from him quickly. Nothing comes. This is not a time for violence. Not yet. For now, he will dance.

“School me, Citizen,” he whispers with lips curled up.

“Just follow my lead. And don't worry, my hand won't wander.”

“What a shame.”

His hands grip Carlos firmly as they move through the lab, feet tapping against the floor. The noises echo back to them in the empty room. Rookie doesn’t hesitate to place his feet and ground them, despite Carlos’s attempts to sweep him away. After only a few minutes, the scientist’s features slide into a smug grin. He chuckles softly, shaking his head and halting their dance. Gentle hands with rough calluses pick his glasses off of his face, revealing his segmented irises to the light of the lab.

“Loosen up,” Carlos directs, placing the glasses on the table. “You need to let go.”

“I don't ‘let go’. I'm law enforcement, not science. I'm more professional than that.”

Rookie’s voice is as cold as his eyes. The insult falls flat when he is surrounded by the evidence of just how professional Carlos is. Glassware holds countless samples from around the town, all neatly organized and categorized. Handmade non-writing utensils sit on clipboards that hold observations and numbers. Science is truly no less professional, even if the only uniform is a white coat. Carlos knows this. The arch of his eyebrow says that easily.

“What is it with you and my shades?” he asks, ignoring the look on Carlos’s face.

“You said ‘school me’ and I am saying ‘let go’. Are you going to listen or not? ¿Sí? Good.”

There is no pause for a response before he is swept back into the dance. This time, he makes a conscious effort not to make an effort. Carlos nods in approval. His toes catch the scientist’s every few steps, but the dance continues anyway. The silence in the room taunts Rookie. Despite the rhythm of their steps, no song plays to fill it. Obviously Carlos’s head holds the music. Only a mind with so many Outside thoughts could carry a song that they could dance so loosely to.

“You remind me of my old high school teacher. I wonder if you'll sound the same when you're finally arrested?” he thinks aloud and watches for the reaction.

“You’d like to see that happen, wouldn’t you?” Carlos hums.

“What I wouldn’t give.”

There’s a possibility that Carlos meant to throw him off with the dip. He could have also tossed it in as part of the spicy Latin lover character that he likes to play so often. All that it ended up doing was giving Rookie an opportunity to wrap his hand around his gun and pull it up with him. Carlos grips his arm tightly, eyeing the gun as if would murder him on its own. His hand relaxes, leaving white prints on Rookie’s arm, but Rookie doesn’t remove gun from Carlos’s skin.

“Put that back, Rookie,” he says firmly.

“You're cute when you're anxious,” he smirks, moving a hand to Carlos’s hip and sliding it downwards. “My turn to lead. How about you tell me if I do better when I'm in control, huh?”

“Hey! Hand, higher!” Carlos yelps, pulling Rookie’s hand back up to his waist.

“Whoops,” Rookie says unapologetically. “Ask me how many chambers are loaded.”

“How many bullets do you plan on putting in my head?”

None. Carlos’s assumptions are based only in observations of his own fears. Why end the fun so quickly when they can always draw it out longer? He will not mourn the scientist should he happen to find the wrong chamber, only the enjoyment that he draws from taunting him, but it would still be boring. Then again, if he just tells him that he is safe there will be no reason to fight.

“Just one,” he lies with a smile.

Carlos grips his arms tightly again as he dips him. Wide, terrified eyes make it clear that the scientist hears the barrel spin. Before allowing them to stand again, he presses the muzzle to his own temple. Cold metal bites into his skin, pressing a faint ring into the flesh. If he were to pull the trigger and find a bullet in place to fire, everything would end. His life would drag out just long enough to hear Carlos scream. They would fall to the floor together, one horrified and the other lifeless. The gun is always loaded. The bullet never hits. An empty click accompanies Carlos’s flinch.

“Your turn,” he announces and offer up the gun.

“I don’t gamble, zorrito,” Carlos says shakily, letting the gun rest in his hand.

“You’re no fun.”

He pulls Carlos up, balancing them before setting off on a lazy waltz around the lab. The gun remains close, but he won’t push, not yet. There is still time in this adventure. For now, the scientist’s hands are nervous again his skin and they are close enough that Rookie would barely have to change his step to be pressed against the man.

“Maybe they’re all empty, citizen,” he suggests.

“They are. I gave you an unloaded gun. You're returning the favor. I'm smart enough not to take chances,” he says this with a confidence that should come from someone a loaded gun that will end up pointed to their own head.

“Got a lot of faith in my good nature, don't you? I like you better like this, you know,” he mumbles this, but his smirk shows just how ashamed he isn’t of the thoughts running through his head. “Pull the trigger. I dare you.”

“No,” Carlos decides firmly and slides his hand to rest gently on the back of Rookies neck. “Although all logic points to it being empty, no.”

“Live a little, Carlos,” he murmurs.

He presses his forehead to Carlos’s, grinning like a devil underneath his mask. As he shifts to make the next move, a closer move, static buzzes in his ear. His smile falls and Carlos freezes in front of him. There’s a split second of hesitation, of consideration, before he pulls away.

“103. I’m busy,” he snaps. “What is it?”

Carlos is tugging at his mask now, pulling it down to reveal his mouth. They’re far too close for lips to be uncovered. Rookie has to shove him away so that he can pay attention to Buddy’s voice in his ear. The asshole knows where he is. What he’s doing. He can see it all. This does sound fairly legitimate, but he was _so close_.

“A-huh. Yep. No, no it was a false call. I know.Ten-four, I'll go now.”

Carlos steps away from him, raising an eyebrow. His hand runs slowly through his thick hair, pulling muscles taut and slicking back his beautiful, perfect hair. God, this guy is a _dick._ Seriously, fuck this guy. Hell, _literally_ fuck this guy. No, not liter... well yes, literally. Very literally. With a gun involved. A loaded gun. Carlos hands him one and he nods stiffly. Rookie pulls his mask back up, feeling nearly undetectable moisture of Carlos’s touch on the fabric. Only someone trained to see all would be able to tell, but the scent cloys. He replaces his shades and hat so that his face is just as obscured as it should be and turns to leave. The gun stops him.

“Oh, Carlos?” he calls out, catching the man’s attention.

Rookie’s arm lifts, aim perfect on instinct. A shot rings out. Glass shatters across the room, spilling samples onto the floor. Carlos jumps, glancing first at his shattered materials and then at the officer. He looks betrayed, like a small dog kicked into submission.

“Don't touch my stuff, citizen,” Rookie says from behind his mask. “And don't assume we're all good men like you. Sayonara, I’ll see you at our next lesson.”

“I don't know, Rookie. I'm still not one for gambling.”

He never thought such a sassy heretic would be so cautious. How obvious can he be that he has something to protect?”

“It's only been 3 weeks. Think about the stakes you'd be willing to play for.”

With a kiss blown through the thick material of his mask, he strolls out the door.


End file.
